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thou hast made me as thy hand tool,
Shall thy forsake me under the bridge?
shall thou allow thy hand work wasted?
you formed me in my mother womb
when i was water and blood
And thou proclaimed and declared good thing upon me
Thou honoured and adorned me like a gold
Then why liveth me to suffer under the sultry sun
Allow my stomach to toll and speak harshly upon my humble soul
Behind the bar i hears the terrible voice of the owl 
hunting for my soul and body
i sinnth not yet wrongly accused
Let thou honest heart sing gently to my soul
And soften the heart of the wicked one.
Thou hast made me one of thy kind
Shall thou allow me to return to the dust in which,
ye created me from with such suffering
Shall thy hand made suffereth and die though like grasses
Whilst thou liveth
No, ye hast a purpose for my royal soul
But rejection and discrimination welcomes me always
I dare not speak in public for thy good work.
I am voiceless and hopeless and the street my native abode.
Only thou above could be my friend and lover.
Because my foes hastened fast and furious to grab me.
And twist me like an abandoned child.
Wipe thou my eyes now before i perish,
Repair thou my soul and body least they decay and thy hand work wasted .
Although i am far from you in heart but not in words
Hurry up firmly and rescue me from their hands.
Before i die in misery.  


ALL RIGHT RESERVED (c) JOHN CHIZOBA VINCENT 2014

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